White Christmases
by x Bout as Stable as the Wind x
Summary: Purity is often associated with the color white. That doesn't mean that the shade is necessary for it, however. White Christmases don't need snow and balls and shiny things to exist. Damp pirate ships and dark leather pull it off just fine. [captainswan; written for Nina for christmas!]


**For:** Nina.  
 **Penname:** x 12 percent of a moment x.  
 **Character:** Emma Swan.  
 **Other Characters Used:** Killian Jones (Captain Hook).  
 **Rating:** K+  
 **Genres:** Romance / Fantasy.  
 **Message to your person:** Merry Christmas! I've always loved witnessing the dedication and talent you pour into your characters when you role play, and I wanted this to be a small something to hopefully let you know how much your portrayal and existence on the forum is appreciated (esp. considering I couldn't get this to be written the way I wanted it XP). Merry Christmas once again, Nina, and I hope you have a wonderful holiday season. :D  
 **Title:** White Christmases.  
 **Summary:** Purity is often associated with the color white. That doesn't mean that the shade is necessary for it, however. White Christmases don't need snow and balls and shiny things to exist. Damp pirate ships and dark leather pull it off just fine.

* * *

Emma Swan, when she was about eight-years-old, looked out the window of her orphanage room and watched snowflakes drift down past yellow street lamps. The flakes' white purity was tainted with the light and glowed with a weird orange haze. Nothing every stayed white in this stupid place. Not the snow, not the walls, not the sheets of Jimmy Creek's bed (her nose wrinkled in disgust at the thought). She picked at the loose threads of her not-white socks, and sighed as she gazed at her not-white pillow. The lonely sadness pressed down on her chest, as if someone was stepping on it – a longing for something out of reach, out of place. She huffed, and dropped so that she was lying on her back on her uncomfortable little bed, and blinked sadly at the ceiling. That wasn't even white either. How spaghetti sauce – or _whatever_ it was – got onto a ceiling tile so far above her head was beyond her.

Of course, that moment was such a long time ago; but it came to her mind now as Emma stood in a world straight out of… well, Henry's storybook was the closest she could think of. Shiny, spotless marble surrounded her. Blue eyes were wide as they swept over the room she was in, with its dove-white sheer curtains fluttering in the night breeze, and feather pillows on the large master bed. She looked down in confusion and found a white gown draped over her body, a garland of red Christmas berries crossing over her torso. A hand reached up to find a small crown of the same plant tangled in her blonde hair.

 _Dream_. So obviously a dream. It was usually about this time that she would either: a( wake up or b( wander about for a bit before waking. Dreams had always been a funny thing for Emma Swan. She sighed, and a little smile even spread across her lips as she ran a hand down the soft material of the gown, before she stood up from the little vanity she was at and stepped from the bedroom into the hall. It was quiet, and her heeled footsteps clicked loudly against the stone floors. The lazy, faint drone of Christmas songs hummed in the back of her mind.

There was only one other door at the end of the hall – two large, oaken gate-like things, that she knew would lead to the dance hall. To the gentle instrumental of _I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas_ , Emma approached them. Knowledge, the kind you could only get in dreams like this, filled her mind. Her parents were out there. Her son. Her friends. The smile remained on her lips. He would be out there, dressed up for the fairy tale white Christmas eight-year-old Emma would've died for. There would be food, and music. There would be _family_ , that sacred word that still managed to slip past her walls like water through a mesh cloth. And there would be Killian.

She moved automatically, without any real control over her movements. Fingers clenched around the brass handles of both doors, and she took a bit of a breath before she smiled and swung them open.

She caught just the briefest glimpse of the scene she'd expected, half a second or less. Henry's face beaming at her, her parents arm-in-arm in the corner. Killian, all tidied up in boots and knickers, a white shirt with a white rose in his black vest. Dashing.

But then it was gone. White light disappeared, and was replaced by familiar, artificial glow. Everything was stained and off-white in front of her; the pillows scrunched, the sheets on the floor, the window with the street lamps directly outside it covered with condensation. She found herself facing the orphanage room that she honestly hadn't thought about for a good chunk of time, a miracle in itself.

Emma blinked.

She found herself out of the glistening, flawless gown from before, and in sneakers. Dark slim jeans ran up her legs to meet the border of a blank tank top; _that_ was covered with a black leather jacket, and a gray scarf and winter cap covered the rest of the attire. Something she would've worn on a job, or just to go to sleep in on those nights she didn't have a place with heat during the winter. Something so very un-festive, colorless, and _cold_ in some views.

He was dressed similar, and familiar. Black leather trench coat, dark vest, black trousers and black boots. Black hair and black shadow of whiskers along his jaw. A shadow across those piercing blue eyes that stared at her with comforting intensity and welcome. A smirk on his lips, as he sat there on the bed she'd slept in, cried in, wished in to the gentle instrumental of _I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas_ the two nights they played music all night long to calm the children. There was nothing pretty about the sight, nothing celebratory or holiday-related or charming. Nothing, to the naked eye, that would remind one of the purity of snow and crackling fires and _Christmas_.

But her smile had broadened, just a bit.

Black leather and ugly yellow light, not-white socks and not-white pillows, not-white sheets and not-white walls. To be honest, at the moment Swan couldn't believe how naïve eight-year-old Emma had been, to not see how pure the atmosphere could be under just the right conditions. And it had _nothing_ to do with the color _white_.

The revelation was made just as she stepped past the door threshold and into that room, and perhaps just on time. Eyes open out of the dream world and into reality groggily, to settle upon a cluttered nightstand covered with pretzels and glasses, a few bottles and aspirin. With a hum, she twists around and finds herself looking into already-awake blue eyes and that same, easy-going smirk.

"Morning, Swan." Voice is smooth and alert and showed no signs of the drinks from last night, or any dreams that might've occurred during the night. "I suppose this is… Merry Christmas, is it not?"

She hears _I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas_ being played from Henry's room, and a laugh erupts from somewhere deep in her chest where not a grain of sadness was to be found. She grabs his face in her hands, golden curls cascading around them both as she crushed her lips to his own, still chuckling into the kiss even when she pulls away. "Yeah," she breaths.

"Merry Christmas."


End file.
